A Sudden Slip
by EmitTime
Summary: Try as he might, Arthur is still plagued with memories of that fateful day. It's a good thing Alfred is there to catch him now when he falls. A modern-day Independence Day fic. Bittersweet USUK with a hopeful ending.


**.x.x.x.**

A Sudden Slip

**.x.x.x.**

_I might crumble, I might take a fall again.  
Still missing you..._

**.x.x.x.**

* * *

The annual Independence Day celebration at America's place was in full swing, nearly all the nations save for Russia and a few others in attendance. A humdrum of chatter and faint music sounded through the house, people going to and fro. France had baked a impressive seven-tier cake, which even Austria had to admit was a work of art (especially when he learned that four of those layers were chocolate). There was barbeque in the yard, and music and games for the guests inside. Alfred sauntered among them, laughing and joking, his eyes so very bright and a bounce in his step.

And he was just so happy, _so happy_, because for once in a very long time, England was there.

Arthur knew this, because America had told him so at the start of the party. And he'd swallowed down his pain and nodded, said he was glad to be there at last, said all was well and fine.

There was a time when bitterness and anger would have clouded his judgment, prompting him to spend the day smashing liquor bottles alone instead of supporting the other half of the Special Relationship. Earlier that year, those toxic emotions had given way to forgiveness and the realization of love, however.

So, there Arthur was, of his own free will and volition.

Physically, he was there, anyway. He stood in the midst of the celebrating and socializing, holding a plastic red cup full of cola (because there wasn't a teabag to be found in Alfred's house today, and he really shouldn't be drinking).

But mentally, and in his heart, he was being pulled back slowly yet surely into another time, another place. That place was so familiar that it was almost inevitable to go there. This happened every year, _that memory_ resurfacing to the forefront of his mind despite his recent attempts to bury it in the past where it belonged.

England didn't want to go back _there_. He wanted to have a good time, he really did. He was glad to be here with America, even if it meant being far from home on a day where he typically wanted to curl up with a cup of tea in the lamplight and be left alone. He shouldn't be so weak, he should be stronger, _he used to be so big_...

Gradually the sounds of the party became distorted to his ears, images blurred to his vision. He vaguely registered tossing his empty cup away and going to stand by the wall, away from the others. He swore he heard the sounds of muskets firing, of bayonets clashing, of furious shouts and pained cries. He felt chilled to the bone, as if it was raining hard, as if he was weak in the knees in the face of defeat, abandonment, _shame._

England wasn't there, he wasn't here, he wasn't anywhere. He was lost.

Pressure built up behind his eyes, long-overdue tears begging to be freed.

Every year was the same.

The truth was that he was never fine on this day, no matter how much he wanted to be. It was like an illness which overtook him, these memories, these aching phantom feelings.

Perhaps the others were right. Perhaps he was crazy. Try as he might to ground himself in the present, he couldn't help it.

"I don't want to be this way." England whispered desperately under a choked breath, unheeded by the other nations partying. His head pounded dully, reality swaying. "I don't want it to be this way anymore."

It was ridiculous, he knew, to feel this way. He and Alfred had made so much progress, mended so many jagged edges in their relationship. Arthur did treasure that. It hadn't fixed everything, though. Arthur wondered if anything ever would be able to.

He wrapped his arms around himself, hunching his shoulders slightly and shutting his eyes to block in the tears. He would not cry _here_, surrounded by the reminders of his greatest failure. He would not cry at the birthday party of the one he loved so dearly, the only one who could _break him_ and then heal him fleetingly with every golden touch.

Arthur had no business allowing himself to slip into bitter memories, not when he'd promised Alfred that he would be there this year, _truly be there_. He had no right to cry, but he was damn near close to doing so anyway.

He knew one thing for certain. Alfred must never know about this. He would be so disappointed, so hurt if he knew. Arthur would not do that to him. He'd ruined enough of the young man's birthdays already.

Not for the first time, he cursed his selfish heart and wondered if his entire attendance hadn't been an enormous mistake. And he was so afraid of messing up again, so afraid of _breaking down_ again, that it took everything he had to stand there in silence and endure the sick, twisting feeling in his heart.

* * *

_"Amerique!"_ Francis called the birthday nation over. He was standing by the kitchen, a good distance away from England, but that didn't prevent him from observing the island nation's state. He had feared this would happen. It only stood to reason that Arthur would be having a difficult time. He seemed to be making an honest effort to involve himself in the Independence Day festivities this year, but France knew how deeply that day had hurt him.

He'd been there, after all. But that was neither here nor there at this point.

"What's up, dude?" Alfred grinned, obediently striding over. "There's plenty of burgers out back if you're hungry!"

_"Non... Amerique,_ I think you need to talk to _Angleterre_." Francis glanced back at Arthur, noting that the shorter blonde had wrapped his arms around himself and appeared to be staring into space, still as a statue. He was turned at an angle where they could not see his face, but even so...

"I don't think he's alright."

"Really? But... I thought... I thought he was okay with this." Alfred's face fell. "What have I done wrong?"

"You have done nothing wrong." Francis said soothingly, patting the younger nation's arm. "It's just that England never stays in the present on this day. He's done well so far, actually. Just talk to him." A harder edge came into his voice, indiscernible from jealousy. "If anyone can bring him back around, it will be you, not _moi_."

Alfred sighed. "I'll try!"

"Just be gentle with him. He is like a _petite lapin_, easily scared away like this."

"Yeah, okay..."

Weaving through the crowd, America made his way over to the island nation. England gave no indication that he was aware of the other man's presence. He really did seem out of it.

"Artie?"

Arthur whispered something to himself, too low for Alfred to hear, and shook his head.

"Hey." Alfred said gently. "Will you just look at me, dude? I'm right here, Arthur."

Something about his words must have struck a chord within the older nation, for he slowly turned to face the taller blonde.

"Alfred." His voice sounded hoarse, strangled and tortured. Jerkily, England reached up to swipe the back of his hand across his eyes.

"I'm right here." America repeated lightly, although inwardly he was feeling helpless and loathing it. "Are you okay?"

Arthur was quiet for a few moments, keeping his hand over his eyes. Alfred noticed how pale his face appeared to be up close, the faint tremors which wracked his shoulders.

"Come on, dude, let's get some fresh air, alright?" He decisively took hold of England's arm, leading him away from the bustle of the party.

The movement seemed to retrieve England from his haze. "No, Alfred, I'm fine. You should be enjoying your day. Go mingle with some of the others."

"I have been! Then I..."

"You what?" Arthur froze as they left the house and walked onto the lawn. He attempted to jerk his arm away, digging his heels into the ground. "I don't know what you were thinking, but I'm fine. Just a bit jet-lagged, that's all."

"You're lying."

"I am not!" There was a flash of fear in emerald eyes, surprising Alfred enough to let him go.

England couldn't be afraid of _him_. Not after all they'd been through, not when things between them had finally begun to get closer than ever.

"I'm having a perfectly jolly time, and you should be too, Alfred." Arthur turned away, looking down. "Honestly, I appreciate the gesture, but I'm not so old or weak that I can't enjoy a party, and it took a lot of pulled strings to get here, so let's not...let's not _go there_."

Suddenly, America understood. England wasn't afraid of him. He was afraid of looking weak. Attending Alfred's Independence Day party left him vulnerable, and he was retreating into himself to make up for that loss of security.

"It's okay if you're not, though." Alfred said softly.

"What are you going on about?"

"It's okay if you're not having a good time. Look, I'm not an idiot...well, not all the time. I get it."

Arthur was quiet for a long moment. "I'm fine, love. Really, I am." He insisted, almost despairingly. It wasn't all too convincing.

"But it's okay if you're not!" America persisted, placing a hand on the shorter man's shoulder. "Just don't hide from me, Artie. Please?"

England let out a harrowed sigh just short of a sob, turning at the insistent pressure of America's hand. His mouth was drawn in a tight line, his shoulders tense and eyes heavy. Alfred was saddened to see them glistening with the warning of tears.

Stiffening further, Arthur refused to look him in the eye. He was on guard, almost as if he expected ridicule or anger, almost as if he was desperately attempting to prepare himself to be cut down. "What is it that you want from me?"

"Nothing. I just wanted you here, and I'm glad you came. It means a lot to me, so much." Alfred caught the other nation's chin, easing his head back up. "But it's okay if you want to leave. Because I love you, and I want you to be well. Really, actually well."

"I...don't want to leave." Arthur admitted. "I don't want to leave you, and I don't want you to leave me. I just...I just wish it would go away, I'm so sorry, Alfred." He gasped as the unbidden tears finally cascaded down his cheek, rolling down to Alfred's fingertips.

"I wish I weren't like this, believe me, I wish I wasn't still affected... I never wanted... I'm no good to you like _this_." He rambled apologetically.

Oceanic-blue eyes widened. Could it be that England needed reassurance..._craved validation_ from _him_? Sometimes, America forgot how self-deprecating the island nation tended to be beneath all his prideful nature. Alfred huffed good-naturedly.

"You know, Artie, all these years I've been trying to do things that might impress you...that might make me your equal. I didn't do that because you're weak. I wanted to be just as strong as you."

"You arsehole, you've left me in the dust there." Arthur softly punched his shoulder, causing America to chuckle.

"Yeah, I have, huh? But that doesn't mean you're any less of a person or nation. It just means that I can save you now!" He smiled brightly, briefly, before growing somber and moving his hand to cup Arthur's cheek. "At least, I wish I could."

"Oh, Alfred..." Arthur sighed, leaning into the touch. "You do save me, every day."

Drawing the other man into his arms, Alfred pressed close to him, encompassing him in warmth and hiding him away, if only for a few moments, from the rest of the world. "What can I do to make this better, though?" He muttered against messy, butter-blonde locks.

Slowly, Arthur brought his own arms up to clutch at the back of America's jacket, shuddering against the broad chest. His breaths were shaky, but as a large palm ran soothingly up and down his spine, he began to quiet and relax. "Just this. I just... I just want to be here with you. That's all."

"You are here with me." Alfred lifted his face up. England found no judgment in his eyes, no anger or contempt. There was only sincerity and concern and _love_. He found himself slipping into those impossibly pure blue eyes, losing himself within their bright depths and all the hope they held. The crushing weight of the past grew lighter and lighter as he stood there in America's arms.

He felt grounded again.

"So I am." He murmured.

And when Alfred pressed a soft kiss to his lips, he shut his eyes and surrendered willingly to the moment, to the _present_, to the one who wielded such power over him and hardly even knew it. Alfred, who had broken him once and yet continued to tenderly put him back together ever since.

The last of Arthur's tears slipped down his cheeks. He might have been far from his homeland, might have been surrounded by tributes to the worst day of his life, might still have been struggling with _letting go_. But Arthur knew this was just where he wanted to be.

For being with Alfred was like coming home, and all the rest could slip away.

He pulled back with shining eyes and a smile.

"I'm here."

* * *

**x.x.x.**

_I might crumble, I might take a fall again.  
But you're my everlasting friend._

**.x.x.x.**

* * *

**Author's Note: Gosh I never intended to write another USUK Fourth of July fic so soon. *Rolls around* Why do I do this to myself...?**

**I really love USUK, and I wanted to write a fic where England is making an honest effort to support America despite his feelings. I just feel like England would, at some point, realize he does need to let go. Actually doing so would simply be difficult, that's all. I got tired of reading fics where England always seems to be an intentional party-downer.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Hetalia franchise, the cover image or the italic lyrics at beginning and end (taken from "Everlasting Friend" by Blue October). **


End file.
